


Let Me Hurt You

by mushroomnoodles



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Cutting, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, it takes place around 2005, may be triggering, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:26:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4668227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomnoodles/pseuds/mushroomnoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick finds out Pete cuts himself. Pete is actually miserable and Patrick just wants to help him. His idea just might work...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Hurt You

**Author's Note:**

> If you're easily triggered please don't read this.

Not all nights were unbearable. Sometimes, listening to music with Patrick was enough to make me forget about the heavy void in my chest, the shapeless and pitch-black mass that took my heart hostage and gave me palpitations. Sometimes I just focused on work. Other times I took a couple pills more than prescribed.

I usually succeeded in finding something to distract me from myself, forgetting about that part of me that characterized me the most, the one that destroyed me.

That evening, however, was one of those evenings where nothing seemed to work: so I just stopped trying to annihilate the sick, rotten, dirty part of me and went back to my self-destruction tantrum, trying to hit myself in the core. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, I only wanted to make myself numb to sensations, all of them; even though I was never sure whether it was better to feel nothing at all or just drown yourself in your own familiar and ineradicable pain.

That night, I decided to proceed because it felt right. I took one of my razors, disassembled it, and a blade, bright and sharp, reflected the artificial light of the toilette; the bathroom door was closed, Patrick was playing guitar in the living room, and I was unstoppable. I started from my left wrist: a little horizontal cut just under my palm, nothing too dramatic. Little red drops started to form along the line I had just drawn, they multiplied and some of them were smaller, more timid than others – but the blood didn’t fall down, the drops didn’t break. My forearm was still immaculate.

Before I could carve myself again, I heard knocks on the bathroom door. I hadn’t locked it, and I don’t know why. It could be because I wanted Patrick to notice, maybe; maybe I just wanted him to come and get me out of there and hug me, touch me and tell me everything was going to be all right. I wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

I suddenly regretted not locking the door. I needed some more time to admire my crimson tears. Perhaps I could free more of them, and then…

“Pete!” Patrick knocked again, more forcefully this time. “Pete!”

I wasn’t ready. Patrick didn’t deserve to see me in this state. 

I was trembling; panic took over every fiber of my body, it paralyzed me. My hands were cold, sweaty, and my heart was in my throat, strangling my vocal chords and making it hard for me to breathe.  
Patrick tried to lower the handle of the door; sure, he didn’t expect it to open on the first try.

I stayed still, blood on my wrist, blade in my hand.

Patrick’s skin was  _white_ , eyes wide and fixed on my left wrist. I brought it behind my back as soon as I noticed his gaze; I didn’t know what gave me the strength to do it, nor what I believed I could achieve by doing so. He had caught me in the act. There was nothing to hide now.

I was ready to take all the insults Patrick wanted to launch at me; I’d fucked up, and, knowing him, angry and frustrated howls were about to come. My heart could feel them already, it beat so hard my sternum hurt.  
But he didn’t say anything. All Patrick did was close his eyes, inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth; then he turned and shut the door behind him. I knew by then that the times I fucked up the most, were the ones where Patrick didn’t shout, but just went away and left me all alone with such a cruelty and coldness and resentment - and Patrick sure as hell wasn’t known for this kind of behavior.

Then it hit me: it was over. Everything would change; my relationship with pain, my relationship with Patrick – my only source of joy, my best friend, my love. Sure enough, I could say goodbye to what had always been there between us – a connection based on honesty, fidelity, respect and a huge mutual admiration. That connection was now broken – I had just broken it. Not that Patrick deserved to be dragged in my spiral of hatred and death. I’d never been worthy of him.

I collapsed on the floor, I burst and the tears defaced my face, scratching it; crying made me ugly and when I cried my appearance suited my filthy soul perfectly. It was just right, but now nothing felt right, and I needed to cut every centimeter of my skin so badly, I needed to burn myself with the flattening iron till I had sores and bladders all over me. I wanted every fucking milligram of dirt out of my body, and this was the only way I knew: to just cast all my anger towards the only proper target, myself.

Actually, I couldn’t find the strength to do anything, so I just stayed there, crouched on the floor, smaller than I’ve ever felt in my entire life. All I had left was my eyes to cry, and when even my tears had finished, I fell asleep, my head heavy and aching.

  
When I woke up, the ache in my head had faded, but everything else was as miserable as before. I thanked God I hadn’t dreamt, at least – a nightmare wasn’t exactly what I needed right now.

I got up, staggering, and I almost hit the toilet with my head. When I got to my feet, I gazed at myself in the mirror: what I saw in my eyes, in the dark rings around them, frightened me for a second and brought back all the sadness of the past few hours. It wasn’t something I could handle by myself, that wasn’t a life I could live. I shifted my gaze to my wrist: the blood hadn’t dried completely yet, and when I touched my cut with two fingers, more blood came out, provoking a sick pleasure in me, an instant of relief. I was so desperate for it, and it was  _so unfair_  that it was wrong, that Patrick believed I was a monster, a psycho because of it. I hated the fact that I loved self-destruction, because I loved Patrick more than anything in this world.

I dragged my feet out of the bathroom, and found Patrick with his guitar on his lap again. He put it away when he saw me and motioned me to sit next to him on our bed. His face radiated calm and patience; he was almost smiling.

I felt relieved.

He spoke with a voice so controlled it sounded unnatural in a situation like this.

“Pete, listen, when you feel  _like this_ , just call me, tell me, and we’ll search for a solution together.”

Well, that was a bad start. 

No. No, Patrick didn’t understand, and - thank god, he couldn’t understand. We couldn’t just ‘search for a solution together,’ when I wanted to hurt myself there was nothing that could make me change my mind, nothing could have satisfied my needs just as much. It was a physical and psychic  _need_  and it was  _all mine_ , Patrick couldn’t just come and  _demand_  to take away from me the only thing that worked when all else failed and - 

“I know you aren’t ready to stop hurting yourself. I mean, I can imagine (‘ _it’s written all over my face_ ,’ I thought with a hint of bitterness), and I’m not asking you this. But we could talk about it,” Patrick half-grimaced when he saw my eyes get wider, terrified. “No, okay. We could… what about I’ll let you do it in a safer way?”

He was waiting for an answer, but I was confused, scared, and Patrick seemed willing to help me so maybe he didn’t hate that much but I wasn’t ready for it – I wasn’t ready to lose him, to lose my cuts…

“I mean – what if  _I_  hurt you? Just so I can make sure you don’t kill yourself, you don’t – overdo… I just don’t want you to lose blood in vain.”

This last sentence drew my attention a little, even though I still believed we couldn’t find a meeting point.

“I don’t understand.” It was the first sentence I said that night. My voice was broken. 

Patrick… blushed?

“I don’t really know how – uhm. How self-harm works… what you look for in it exactly. Oh my God, I may be about to say the biggest bullshit ever and you’re gonna think I’m crazy but…”

“Patrick?”

He sighed and looked at me in the eyes. Some quiet moments passed by before Patrick spoke again.

“If we – like. Did some violent, extreme sex. If you let me do  _anything_  to your body, I could hurt you… I’d be totally fine with it, you know, it’s one of my kinks. You should just lay there and let me do all the work… do you think you’d get the same rush you get when you cut yourself?” He paused, probably waiting for me to answer, to comment. Actually, I just thought I was crazy and that it was all a dream. “Okay, right, that was straight bullshit right there. Forget it.”

His face got even redder and his eyes were now staring at the pillow next to my leg.

Before he could add anything, I spoke.

“Actually, Patrick, I… I don’t know. It’s not something I, uh, have ever considered before. It kinda makes sense, though.”

I wasn’t sure those words were exactly what I wanted to say. Should I stop cutting so that my body would only suffer when it was abused in bed? Was it even worth it?

“So… you don’t think it’s stupid? Do you wanna try? If it doesn’t work… well, I guess we’ll see then.”

“Actually, yes, I do think it’s stupid. Like, very stupid. But we can give it a try. I have nothing to lose.”

We were both serious, too serious, given the absurdity of the whole situation. Who knows, maybe deep inside we hoped it would work for real. Anyway, I wanted to set the record straight.

“Listen. We’ll give it a try only once. If it doesn’t work, you won’t just ask me not to go back to my old habits. Know this. I don’t mean to hurt you, I just want to warn you – make you understand it’s much harder than you think…” my voice broke on the last word.

“Pete, I’m not stupid,” his hand reached my face and stroked my cheek, “I can sense your pain. I can’t feel it, but I know it’s there, and I can see how it hunts you. I don’t underestimate it and that’s why I’ll do my best to be next to you always. This is just our first attempt, there will be many more until we find the right way to deal with this. We’ll fall, we’ll get up again, but it’s gonna be me and you, always.”

I put my hand on his and looked at him in the eyes, returning his glance. It was the most beautiful thing he could have said to me. Sure, I felt guilty, because I didn’t want to drag Patrick to hell with me; but I was grateful to have someone like him by my side. Patrick probably heard my thoughts. 

“It isn’t your fault. When I told you ‘I love you’ for the first time, I vowed I would always take care of you, love you and treat you like you were the most precious thing on earth. It was my choice. I want to be with you and I want you to be serene. That’s all.”

My heart shattered. 

“So,” he continued, “next time you feel the urge to hurt yourself, come to me, okay? We’ll try this out.”

I tightened my lips. Patrick Stump was too much for me and I should just let him live his life in peace: he’d suffered because of me, so I had to punish myself. 

Consequently, I decided it was time to try. “Now.”

“N – now? You sure?”

“Yeah.”

I wasted no time. I stretched out and gave him an aggressive kiss, but then I relaxed, let him lead the kiss and, accordingly, everything else. It was beautiful to just let him spoil me, let his tongue reach my tonsils while mine barely touched his, all shy and going with the flow. 

He pushed my back on the bed and he got on top of me, his lips never leaving mine. He grabbed my wrists – I gasped, because it burned – and clenched them together in his right hand, pressed against the pillow above my head. I could not move, just abandon myself. 

He rubbed his lips on my cheek, gently, up to my earlobe; he started sucking at it. He left a trail of kisses running down my neck, lingered on my carotid, and down on my collarbones. He bit them and I closed my eyes.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

He let go of my wrists and got up; my body was all alone now and I missed the sweet warmth of Patrick on me already. I moaned to let him know, but he ignored me, and kept on rummaging in a drawer of our closet.  
When he came back, I recognized a bottle of lube, a vibrator and a whip in his hands. I vaguely remembered the whip, it was mine before Patrick and I got together, but I’d never used it.

“We don’t have the… right toys for this kind of stuff. We should buy more, just in case,” he told me while examining the vibrator. He then put it on the bed next to my feet – and I instinctively withdrew them. His eyes were looking at every centimeter of me, from my feet to my legs, from my hips to my chest to my face. His gaze was ravenous and wild, so strange on Patrick; usually, I was the one who ran our games.  _I_  used to take care of him,  _I_  used to command,  _I_  was the confident one. Every time we made love, a dreamy expression was on Patrick’s face, so shy, so timid, so submissive. That Patrick wasn’t here, tonight, and in his place there was a dominant one, an alpha dog, that was devouring me with his eyes and that was doing all of this for me. My dick awakened at the thought.

“Take your shirt off,” Patrick ordered, his voice hard and authoritarian. He did the same, and it felt weird, too, because it was always so difficult to get him to take his own off. His skin was white and smooth; it looked like it could break at the smallest impact, like real porcelain. His pink nipples were a splash of color on his pale chest, and he was gorgeous, really, he looked like a painting. I whimpered before such beauty. 

Patrick leaned in and slapped me.

“First rule: you mustn’t make any sounds and you mustn’t talk unless I say so.” He caressed my aching cheek, and, still on top of me, he pulled down my pants and boxers at once. He gazed down at me for several moments, and I felt vulnerable, naked and exposed with an obvious erection between my thighs. “Got it?”

I nodded.

“Good boy…” he said while taking his pants off, his great hard dick in the air, and oh my god. I wanted it inside of me  _now_.

I held back a moan when he grabbed his t-shirt; I thought he wanted to put it on again for a moment, but then he grabbed my head by my hair and pulled it up. He wrapped his t-shirt around my head, blindfolding me. He pushed me down again, back against warm sheets.

Patrick was no longer in sight. I could not know his position, nor foresee his next move, if not by following his breath or his weight shifting on the bed. I could feel his hands on my nipple; he tightened it between his forefinger and his thumb, and then bit hard. I bit on my bottom lip not to scream. It hurt, fuck! Patrick knew it was a very sensitive spot of mine. But then again, I got a very good endorphin rush.

I could no longer sense his presence on my chest; now his fingernails were running through my abs, certainly leaving red scratches on them. He licked at those scratches and they burnt at the contact with his saliva. I sighed quietly: the pain in my soul seemed to relieve.

He tightened his hands on my hips, his fingers pressed on my skin so forcefully I didn’t believe Patrick could do that. They held me in place, pressed against the bed.

“You,” I could feel Patrick’s breath on my aching dick and a chill ran down my spine. “Are mine, only mine, and I’m the only one who can hurt you.” 

To reinforce what he had just said, he shoved a finger inside my ass, with no warning nor lube. The pain was sharp; a whimper escaped my lips, and guilt attacked me because I had just disobeyed Patrick. Luckily, he punished me for it before I could do it myself.

“Hey – what the fuck did I say? You can’t make a sound, slut. That’s what you are, a dirty slut. All naked for me, ready to scream in pleasure every time I touch you…”

He removed his finger from inside of me, and my body was free from his weight again. I wasn’t happy about it.

However, he came back to me soon, and sat on my knees. A foreign object, which felt like leather, hit me on the hip, exactly where Patrick had sunk his fingers earlier. I had a spasm as soon as the whip touched me, but I managed to keep my mouth shut this time. This pain was lush, cathartic just like I needed it and –

“This is what you get for disobeying me. Don’t you dare do it again, whore.”

Shit, I didn’t know how long I could last with Patrick talking to me like that. It was so fucking obscene. My stomach curled at every word; my cock was demanding attentions by now. 

But Patrick didn’t look like he wanted to give any to it, and he got up again, leaving me by myself once more.

“Pete, get out of bed and come to me. Follow my voice,” he told me, and I obeyed right away. I stopped when I felt his breath close to me, knowing he was standing just some centimeters away from me. He grasped my chin with a hand and dragged my face forcefully against his, kissing me roughly, his tongue everywhere in my mouth. It was so raw I had to catch my breath when we parted. Then his hand ran along my jawline up to my temple and all the way up to sink in my hair. He pressed down: I took the hint and kneeled, right there in front of him, and now both his hands were on my head.

“What a good boy, you figured it out right away…  _my_  Pete…” and he guided my mouth against his beautiful dick, rubbing the tip against my closed lips, and pressing a little to make me part them. As soon as I did, he shoved inside of me all the way down, neither letting me enjoy his taste nor adjust myself. He started fucking my mouth and the head kept on striking the back of my throat with every thrust of his hips. I thought it could be my new favorite thing: death by chocking on Patrick’s cock was the sweetest death I could think of. He heard me cough, gag, and he probably thought he was overdoing because he pulled out entirely. I wanted to protest, because really, that was hot as fuck and it hurt me but it hurt so good, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak. 

Then, I felt no contact at all. I stayed still while waiting for new instructions.

He made me stand up.

I could feel his arms surround my head; he removed his t-shirt from my eyes and the world was colorful again. It took me some time to readjust to the light, and the first thing I saw was him. He was sweaty, with his coppery hair glued to his forehead and sideburns; his dilated pupils gave the impression his eyes were black, while his pink cheeks were there to remind of his youth, his genuineness. The most beautiful thing, though, were his lips: red, wet, swollen and, oh god, I would have bit them till they bled. 

All that ethereal beauty turned into impatient lust when he tightened his arms around my waist in a tender, yet strong embrace; it was so in contrast with everything we had done that night. It felt so  _sweet_. He then turned me around, so that he was standing behind me, my naked back against his front. In front of us there was a wide mirror, which portrayed our united figures entirely. Patrick pointed at our reflection.

“I kept it artistic… you like?”

He was referring to the marks he’d left on my body. I could see the scratches on my abdomen, but the hickeys spread all over my neck and chest were more obvious, and even more obvious were the bruises on my hips (they were fucking  _purple_ ), one of which had a red whip-shaped spot. Yeah, Patrick did a great job with that. I smiled at the mirror because those marks were beautiful.

He noticed that. “Well, I’m about to mark you some more… the fun starts now.”

He ordered me to get on all fours, face towards the mirror. He positioned behind me. 

“Your ass is a masterpiece… so pretty, so pretty,” he repeated, while he hit me with the whip first on one cheek, then on the other, finding a pace, like he was the drummer and I was his drums. It was such an aphrodisiac pain; Patrick observed intently at my face through the mirror, and smiled mischievously at my blissful expression. He decided it was enough; he stretched an arm and grabbed the vibrator on the edge of the bed, he analyzed it, playing around with it in his hands.

“I would torture you with this too,” he said. “But I need to come. You’ve been so good up to now and my dick demands you… And it doesn’t want to wait anymore. We’ll play with this thing next time.”

I swallowed hard.

“Oh, one more thing,” he added. “You can talk now. And you can come, but you mustn’t touch yourself. Okay?” 

“Okay.”

Patrick grasped the lube and spread it on three fingers; he shoved one by one in my ass, and I jumped at every addition. He curled them, he stretched me, and when he found my prostate I gobbled and panted his name.  
“Don’t you feel like a filthy, cheap slut? You sure do look like one,” he removed all his fingers at once, and I felt tremendously empty. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Patrick… I’m just a whore, your whore, I’m ready to do anything for you… Please, fuck me.”

Patrick laughed. It was a dark, wild laugh. 

“Look at you,” he forced my face towards the mirror, “on all fours for me, so desperate, completely subdued to my every wish. So pathetic and hot as fuck…”

I really liked those words. Not only they were obscene, they also felt pretty right to me; and since  _he_  was telling me this, since  _he_  was verbally abusing me, I didn’t need to do it myself, did I? It was like every time I hated myself more than usual and my mind insulted me, talking to me like I was the grossest thing in the world, the most worthless ever. But now it was Patrick doing so, and it was right, because he actually loved me and he would have never treated me like that outside the bedroom. Maybe this idea could work for real. 

He positioned his cock against my entrance. 

“And this little hole… it looks like it’s begging me to tear it apart. What’cha say, slave?”

I nodded vigorously. “Yes, Patrick… fuck, please, pl –”

He got in. Again, he didn’t wait for me to get used to it, and started fucking me senseless and hard. Every thrust was stroking my prostate, as violent as it was; that pain was my shelter by now.

Patrick moaned, grunted, and I could admire his features twisted by pleasure through his reflection. It was pure pornography: eyes closed, mouth open in a quiet ‘o’, face upwards, sweat dripping and polishing his skin, graceless hip thrusts… He was a fucking greek god.

His thrusts got faster, and I realized I was so close. I panted his name louder and louder, spasms and adrenaline ran through my whole body, all aiming at my dick, aching and untouched.

He came first, with a scream that faded into weak whimpers. I cherished that sound and remembered it for years. He flooded my ass with warm cum; I was full of him up to my guts, and this only thought was enough. My orgasm was powerful, maybe the most intense I’d ever had; I reached the peak of that pleasure enjoying it till the last minute, screaming Patrick’s name like it was the most beautiful word I’d ever heard.

When the both of us had partially recovered, we finally moved from our positions. We were still out of breath, my heart still couldn’t beat normally; but I felt  _good_ , so good. I hadn’t felt like that for years. I breathed in and smiled while stretching out.

We could see the first light of the dawn through the curtains, to crown the end of this night, which had been both one of the worst and one of the best of my life. Patrick and I tucked under the blankets, tired as hell, saying nothing until our faces were facing on our pillows.

He was waiting for a response, I could understand it by the apprehension that altered his beautiful features. I smiled sweetly to reassure him.

“Patrick, you were… amazing. I didn’t know you could… well…”

He laughed, his usual laughter, and barely blushed. The old Patrick was back.

“Well, we would have had sex like this at some point in the future anyway.” His laugh went off. “But – about that thing. What do you think? Can you think about it now or do you need more time to figure it out?”  
“I felt everything I wanted to feel. I don’t feel the urge to cut anymore for now, so I guess your idea wasn’t that stupid…”

He punched me softly on the arm; I laughed and moved aside.

“So? Are we doing it again?”

“Yes, Patrick… I mean, I feel good now, so…”

His smile lighted up the whole room. I couldn’t help but smile myself.

“Well… I, for one, had the time of my life.”


End file.
